Her Scars
by Baruma
Summary: Kinda a sequel to One Big Happy Weasley Family.  The war has ended, and while everyone else is moving on, Hermione can't.  Because her scars remind her of too much.  Because someone has to remember.


Before note: You can probably set this as a sort of sequel to One Big Happy Weasley Family, cause when I was thinking about this, that's what I wanted. But I don't _think_ it is absolutely a sequel, I guess we'll find out later. And warning, I have only read the last _bothersome fact_ once, so if it is not completely canon, that's why. And I believe that the epilogue did not happen, so if you agree, then honk your horn! Haha, I should make a bumper sticker to that affect, Honk If the Book Seven Epilogue Didn't Happen! Sigh…

Oh, and the bothersome fact thing, I think it was DarkGoddess that said it! (Though she meant book six, I refer to book six and seven as such!)

XXX

She sat on the edge of her bed, in only the dark bra-and-panty set, staring at the matching black dress she was meant to put on. Only to be followed with black stockings and black shoes, maybe even a black barrette for her _almost_ black hair. Somehow it all matched her _black_ mood, which was only growing darker as she sat and stared at the forbidding black dress in front of her. All this black she was wearing just made her paler and paler, and she couldn't seem to match all the other solemn-but-happy faces surrounding her shroud also in black.

No matter how many lives were lost, how many families were torn asunder, they were simply too happy to be out of the mess, to be done with that _war._ They were happy, and patiently waiting for the final grieving to be done, so they could all go about their happy little _free_ lives, while she sat there, and stared, and she _cared._ Everyday she dressed again looking paler and paler, attending every damned funeral there was, and crying for all those people who died, especially the ones who didn't have anyone left to come for them.

Somehow, it became her duty to mourn those loses, while everyone else moved on, and laughed and loved. Because if she didn't, then who would? And her eyes dropped from her oh-so-familiar black dress to the black hair-ties wrapped around her wrist. She had become in the habit of wearing numerous just in case, and somehow her habit seemed to match her black mood so well, and she actually felt like laughing, but only at herself.

But her breathe caught as she stared, and saw the edge of the ghostly white line running down her wrist, well past the stage of being scabbed over. Her teeth ground as her eyes fixed on the colorless scar running across the thin skin and dark blue veins, and she remembered.

Facing off with Bellatrix Lestrange was perhaps, one of her crazier ideas. Especially since Bellatrix was so fucking crazy herself. The two were standing perhaps too close for comfort, throwing spell after spell, and suddenly the tides turned, and Bella had dived at her, her wand dropping to the ground beneath her feet, and her claws extending for her throat. Startled, she threw her hands up, palms facing out, to try and deflect the insane woman flying at her. Her nails had dug in at the bottom of her palms, on both hands, and wrenched downward. The result were two matching scars running across her wrists which she was very self-conscious about, she almost always wore long sleeves just to cover them up, them and the multitude of others _earned_ in battle.

Her stomach felt vaguely queasy at the sight, and her hands were flipped determinedly over palms down on her bare legs, and she ignored the dark, still red burn across the knuckles and first digits of the fingers on her left hand. Instead she stared at the almost ankle length, long sleeved black lace dress hung in front of her, and considered the fact that she really aught to get dressed. But then again, who would care if she were late, who would care if she even showed up at all? Who noticed she never missed a funeral, dressed as always in the same black dress, crying the same choking sobs as each person were laid down to rest in their six-foot deep hole?

She cared, and she sighed as one hand fleetingly lifted to touch the dark lace of her dress, as if she wasn't used to wearing it everyday, as if she wasn't about to put it on again for another four hours as she stood outside-look, is it raining today?-and watched another person be put under. But she had to, because someone had to.

XXX

As Hermione stood there in the rain under her –surprise- black umbrella, her pale face betraying the dark sleepless circles, her eyes swept around the gathering, searching out each face, mentally ticking off on her checklist of who she thought would be there, wondering if one person in particular had decided to show up this time. Because she hadn't always been the only one to attend every _celebration of death,_ no in the beginning, a lot of people came, and then dwindled off after their close friends were done, and finally there was left two people who made the effort, Hermione Granger and Harry Potter.

But the last-how many days?-Harry hadn't been showing up. The first day, she though he was sick. The second day, sick again? But he kept not showing up. And after a week, she went looking for him, worried. Her mother had wanted her to stay with them for a little while since she was _done with school,_ and Harry, being seventeen, refused to stay with the Dursleys ever again. Mrs. Weasley offered him a room, seeing as they had extra, and he accepted. Though she _was _doubtful as to whether it was simply a place to stay with semi-family, or if it was his precious Ginny that he wanted.

Instead, as she entered the Burrow's cluttered family room still shroud in her eternally black dress, she saw Harry sitting on the couch by Ginny, laughing and dressed in Cannon Orange, and not even showing the aftermath of a cold, and she was disgusted. She was furious and shocked _almost _silent, only a sharp intake of breathe escaping her.

Harry turned to face her, his eyes pointed to her feet, his happy expression covered with guilt, and she had to exert _extreme_ control to keep from shaking. From beyond her range of Harry-staring, she saw Ginny stand start towards her. At that Harry jumped to his feet and followed as Ginny ushered Hermione out into the vacant hallway.

"I know what you're here for Hermione." Ginny's voice was condescending. Behind her Harry shifted nervously between his feet.

"Do you now?"

"Oh Hermione." Exasperated now. "You _can't_ keep living in the past. It's silly to bother these poor people when you show up to every bloody funeral and just remind them of what happened and why. They just want to say good bye and forget."

"NO Ginny. That is not the _point_. The _point_ is to give thanks for what they sacrificed. The _point_ is to honor them. The _point_ is to thank them and _then_ move on. You don't forget."

"But Hermione you're _not _moving on. You're… you're _lingering._ You're not doing any good; you're just making people feel bad by reminding them of _what they lost._"

"And what about those people who don't have anybody? What about people like Mundungus who sacrificed themselves and _nobody honors them?!_ Someone has to be there for them."

"But it doesn't have to be you!"

"BUT NOBODY ELSE IS!" Her fist were clenched and her teeth grinding, and Harry could tell she was about to punch her in the face, closest female friend or not.

"Gin let me talk to her." And inside she cringed at the nickname, at what was so, and so not fair. With a huff and barely curled lip Ginny flounced off back into the other room.

"Hermione…" His hand was running through his hair in the oh-so-familiar way.

"Don't Harry. She talked you out of going, didn't she? It was her fault, and because she'll sleep with you, you'll do as she says. No matter the fact that if everyone thought the way she does, that _no-one_ would be there for those other people. Someone has to, needs to, and it fucking makes sense that it would be us. Who else, but the people who rallied them to fight, the fucking ones who survived."

"Fuck Hermione, don't I ever get to be selfish or do something just for me for once? Why do I always have to live for someone else? Why is it me who has to _rally the people,_ and then get stuck with fucking crying over them in the end too? _When do I get to say no?_"

And they fell together, crying, and had she been any other woman, the tears would be running her black mascara down her face and into his hair, except that she didn't wear makeup. He curled inwards into a ball there in her lap in the middle of the hall, and her fists tangled in his black hair holding him against her. And the sobs poured out of her, because she knew that he was tired, tired of fighting and losing pieces of himself, but she knew that someone had to be there for those people who lost it all, and if he wasn't with her, then she would have to do it all alone, and damnit, it was so much easier with him with her.

But they didn't know that one red-headed girl stood inside the door listening to them talk. They didn't know her rage at what was said, and the fact that she was so damned sure that _someone_ was trying to take _her_ Harry Potter away. And she sneered because she knew that somehow that other woman-_girl-_ held a spot in his heart that she couldn't seem to uncover, to demolish and fill-in.

And now, so many days later, Hermione stood in her black dress, hoping that this was one of those funerals in which they had agreed upon that he would come to, to support the family and the deceased, and to support _her._ And suddenly she could see the messy black hair and pale face among the sea of gloom, and she sighed, relieved. Because Demetry Petrov didn't really have anyone, her and the priest and the few ministry workers that had set up the funeral for the deceased ministry worker.

As she felt Harry's arm wrap around her waist she melted into his side, glad that he had promised to definitely attend the funerals without family present, because they were always the hard ones.

"Sorry," he murmured into her ears, barely loud enough for her hear him. "Gin was having a bit of a fit because she wanted to go out today, but I had to remind her of the promise. You how she is, she's not too fond of me coming to all these." At the pursing of her lips he continued. "_I_ know its important Hermione, _we_ know it, but she doesn't really understand."

"Harry…" and she was tired. "It's your gir-problem, and I'm sure Demetry would prefer to hear about how Merlin will take him within his bosom and teach him the _Truth_, and that his soul will live on." Because she could almost recite the speech by heart, give the last rites of the funeral from memory in place of the priest. Two pale individuals stood there under the black umbrella in the misty drizzle and waited patiently for his soul to be sent on so they could leave and get ready for the next one the next day.

As the end came, people began talking in earnest, glad the _ordeal_ was over; Harry pulled Hermione in close to him.

"You know, Ron would be happy if you met us for lunch. I know Gin wouldn't mind, it's been so long since you were over."

"I don't know Harry." Because the last time she had talked to Ronald, so many weeks ago, the day after her confrontation with Harry, they had fought. He yelled at her just as Ginny had, about moving on and getting over the war, and she couldn't help but cry, because they didn't understand and they had stopped caring so damned _quickly_.

And he scowled at her, and wondered why he was wasting his time, and she screamed at him, sobbing and digging her frayed nails into her calloused palms, drawing blood. Harry ran in then, and shooed him out, and they promised then, that he would join her at some, and that no one would talk him out of it, because they couldn't talk her out of it.

"C'mon Hermione, please. Come for lunch. We're talking about going to a little muggle café; I know they have hot chocolate with sickly amounts of whipped cream." Ah, so he got dirty, knowing as he did her soft spot for hot cocoa. At those pleading emerald eyes, she acquiesced.

"Fine, but I would like to get changed, you know have a shower and get into some jeans. It's eleven now, meet at the Burrow in two?" He nodded, smiling, and they both apparated away.

And finally she was at her parents' house, dropping her cold black clothes on the bathroom floor, and turning the shower on so hot it could scald her. Standing in the hot water that was soaking her bushy hair, her tears mingled and were lost. One hand was splayed across her belly as the other was against the wall helping to support her. Traveling down her torso between her small breasts her sickening scar from the cutting curse in sixth year was vivid hot under the heat.

Normally so carefully hidden the crescent moons on her hips were visible, and she felt sick at their presence. Because while Harry had been searching for that one last Horcrux and Ron had been protecting his family, she had been all alone and trying to help a couple first years to hide. And just as she had shoved them in a hole, she heard his voice behind her, and she sealed the scared children inside, away from _him_.

She dived away from Antonin Dolohov's disarming curse, and swore to herself from behind the mass that was her hair. Because somehow he had a _sick_ fascination with her, and now she couldn't fight him off herself.

"Why hello Granger." His voice was low and gravely, she shivered. Suddenly she was paralyzed, his wordless hex catching her off guard. He slowly made his way towards her, hands out and eyes mad. She felt sick, and the urge to retch burned her stomach. His hands were on her stomach then, under her shirt and touching her skin. Fear was evidenced in her eyes and he laughed. Laughed at what he could do, and she couldn't stop him.

Then she was on the floor, and oh-so aware of his hands as they pulled at her clothes and shoes. He pulled off her right one then, and scratched the tender flesh with the tip of his wand, drawing blood. Frantic claws tore at her shirt and pulled her jeans down to her knees, leaving to him her shaking body clad in cotton and lace, red-her colors. His nails scraped her skin and clutched at her hips, digging in deep semi-circles. His tongue lapped at her stomach and ribs leaving her wet of his saliva.

Suddenly he hissed and jerked at his forearm, and scowled menacingly at her. "For some reason our time has been cut short, so I shall have to leave you with a token of my-_affection_." From some where a little jeweled knife appeared, and painstakingly careful he traced a line in the delicate skin beneath her ear and under the line of her jawbone. The hot blood seeping out of her shocked her, and he bent in for a –_kiss_- biting her lip-she tasted copper-and he was gone, her body still paralyzed almost naked on the floor.

But she had to fight it, because those poor children-so young-needed her, and if she simply laid here until someone came along and finished her off, then no one would find them, even after it was done with. She felt wretched and sick, and finally all she spat was bile behind the pile of rubble, but she was up. The blood was running down her neck, and down her lip, and she didn't want to step on her left foot cause it hurt so _bad_. But they needed her.

Her wand sealed the wound on her chin-bloody and scarred-and the scratch on her foot followed. Damn, did he charm them to scar? But she couldn't care. Pull up her jeans, fix her shirt, and push her hair back out of her face while brushing away those damnable tears. Then she unsealed the children-scared and shaking-and beckon them on.

"Come on." Her voice was cracking, her mouth dry and dirty. But she had to save these children, she had to so she could go fight Bella and earn another scar. How she hated her body.

Because there under the scalding water, so many weeks after, she still hated it. The scratchy loufa tore at her skin again and again as though she could wash it away. More soap, more shampoo, tearing at her hair. Because if she couldn't see it, then maybe she could forget it.

XXX

She had apparated to the Weasley's to meet the other three and complete the foursome. As she joined the teenagers a duo of red hair both sent scathing looks her way, and wearily she ignored them. Harry however, had a wide grin as he pulled her forward into a hug.

"Hey, I'm so glad you came. It's been so long since you've gone out with us." Behind him the barely audible humph from the shortest Weasley and the scowl on the taller went unnoticed by the dark haired boy. But she noticed, and she knew the only reason they were accepting her was because Harry had talked them into it. Harry, sweet oblivious Harry who still loved her even if she couldn't get over her pain.

They apparated to the Leaky Cauldron then walked down the London streets to the café that Hermione had first introduced to Ginny, who subsequently fell in love with it. They sold sandwiches, soup, coffee, and the most amazing cup of hot chocolate Hermione had found.

They picked a corner table by the window and sat around the small circle. Hermione sat between Harry and Ron and across from Ginny, who refused to look her way and instead chose to stare at Harry, chattering inanely. The siblings both wore jeans and a Cannon t-shirt, spelled to be immobile. Oddly, Hermione's choice of jeans and a dark blue long sleeved shirt almost matched Harry, who wore a t-shirt. The waitress was young, maybe sixteen, and had light brown hair pulled up into a ponytail. She wore the knee-length light blue uniform and a starch white apron across her lap.

"Hey guys. Hope you're all doing good today. Is everybody ready to order?" Her lips were glossy. Ginny started babbling through her order, followed by Ron then Harry, who ordered a turkey sandwich on sourdough, and she knew he did that so she would split his and actually eat something.

"And Hermione here will have the absolute largest cup of hot chocolate you can make with a sickening amount of whipped cream on top. It's the reason she came, you know." His arm was around her shoulder as he leaned them both in to whisper the last part jokingly to the waitress, who giggled.

"Should I bring an extra straw so you can split it with your girlfriend once it's cool?" She was teasing, her glossy mouth wide in a smile. Harry's quick 'that sounds great!' cut off Ginny before she could rage about who his real girlfriend is. As the young girl walked away, waving and smiling at the new entrances, Ginny exploded.

"Who does she think she is, _presuming_ to know who your girlfriend is? As if you'd be dating _Hermione_."

"Ginny." Harry cut her off. "I don't think that it really matters. It's an easy mistake considering how close friends we are."

"Then why didn't she assume she was dating Ron?!"

"Because _I_ ordered for her. Now that's enough!" And the table was quiet, Ginny silently fuming with her arms crossed, glaring at Hermione. She felt tired, just wanted to go home and sleep off this headache she could feel coming on. But Harry had already ordered for them, and she knew that hot chocolate always made her belly warm, calming her.

Only minutes later Ginny was chattering on about the new school year, and how she loved her Head Girl badge, and she loved the gorgeous dress robes her mother got her for it, and how she loved…

She was relieved when the waitress came, still smiling, to drop off their orders. As she dropped off the last plate Ginny burst out how she absolutely loved this quaint little café, and thanks soo much Harry for bringing her. She grabbed his hand, and tried kissing his mouth, which he barely avoided, leaving her kissing his cheek. But she had made her point. The waitress, Hermione idly noticed her nametag, Jenny, gave one last weirded out smile and took off to get the order for another table, barely managing to say 'enjoy' before she was gone. Ginny smirked then took a poised sip of her iced latte.

Beside her Ron was already starting in on one of the three sandwiches he ordered, and wondered around a full mouth about ice cream for dessert. She took the proffered half a sandwich from Harry with a wan smile, and noticed at her first bite he also set his glass of ice water between them; she preferred water with her meal.

Ginny talked on while they ate, and as Hermione finished her half she couldn't help but sigh with relief at the giant cup of cocoa in front of her. One sip and the hot liquid ran down her throat into her belly, flooding tranquility through her veins. She didn't even notice the whipped cream on her nose until Harry laughingly wiped it off with his finger and licked it off.

"I love their cream." She couldn't help but smile back at him; this was happiness. She ignored the dirty looks around the table as she offered Harry the cup and he took it, sipping and smiling as it hit his toes and warmed his body.

"Well, I think I'm about ready to go." Ginny's pointed comment disrupted their peaceful moment, and Hermione strained not to glare back as she sipped at her drink.

"Yea, we'll go when the hot chocolate's done Gin." As she drank the others started a conversation about Quidditch, careful to watch what they actually say considering the fact that they were in muggle territory. She was only about two-thirds of the way through with her drink when she felt the dull throbbing start again behind her eyes; it matched the beat of her heart in eerie staccato. She could just hear the others talking about having a pick-up game from the static crackling in her ears.

"Sorry guys, but I think I might let you do that, and I'm just going to go home. I… I'm not feeling so well right now."

"Well, if you must." An insincere sigh, Ginny. "Hey, I know. Ron, why don't you follow her home, and me and Harry will meet you later on the pitch? This way both couples can have a little time alone together!"

"Ginny…" His teeth were clenched.

"Oh Ronald. It was a silly fight anyway. Isn't it about time you made up and got over it?" She could feel the sharp end of Ginny's pointed words stab into her gut.

"No no, there's no need. I can escort myself thank you. You guys just go have fun; I'll see you… later." She jumped up from the table and nearly tripped herself trying to get out the door. In the twinkling of the door closing Harry stood, frowning.

"I don't know what this has become, but this is ridiculous. Ginny, their business _isn't_ your business, so stay out of it. Ron, the two of you are _always_ fighting, and you know she won't give up on such an important issue, so _get over it_!" And he fled the shop just as quickly as the woman before him, leaving behind two bewildered red-heads.

"Well… Well, he's missed the point entirely then, hasn't he?!"

Outside Harry was running to catch up with the fuming and sick Hermione, who was leaning against the wall and wishing fervently that she could apparate home from there. Oblivious as she was, Harry's arm around her waist startled her, but his voice in her ear soothed her fright.

"Let me help you home." His arms wrapped around her waist, and pulled her back into an alley before the pair disappeared.

XXX

Once home, Miranda Granger shooed Harry away, telling him that Hermione would be just fine after a bit of sleep. At her fleeing back, he shrugged, and the subtle snap told Mrs. Granger that he was gone. She took a quick look at the stairs her daughter had run up, thinking about what she was going through, before she shook her head once and went into the kitchen to take out something for dinner that night.

Upstairs Hermione had barricaded herself in her bedroom, hoping her mother wouldn't decide to follow her. Lying on her bed, she closed her eyes and willed the feelings tugging to her skin to disappear, because the blood soaking the floor was too much, and she hoped it wouldn't stain her skin. She could see the dark rust color of dried blood under her nails and the smudged bloody fingerprints on her wand, on the floor before her. Cause she could feel herself drowning and-green light-someone screaming. Her life, seeping out of her leg-impaled by glass-and she wanted to scream, her nails scratching on the stone floor beneath her. And god that child-he's really only a baby-bleeding, not crying-he's dead-what would his mother say?

And she was out of her bed and sick, purging herself of the nauseating fare he made her eat. Because so few knew, but stress forced her hand, and food didn't last long in her, if it even made it down. Her mother cried because she swore she could see right through her, she was so ghostly pale, but she knew it was the black, and after this she wasn't touching another black cloth again.

Finally she was empty and shivering on the floor where she fell asleep holding herself curled in a ball, only to awaken hours later, joints creaking with disuse, shaking her body, and she had to crawl back to her room to get in bed. Because tomorrow was another day, and her black dress was hanging clean beside her bed, waiting.

XXX

A.N.

Okay, so this will end up being probably a two-shot or something. And sorry to every one reading my WIP, because as you writers know, sometimes the Muse needs a vacation, and if she doesn't feel like something, she won't do it. Contrarily, if she wants to do something, it happens!

Sunni


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